


The Leftovers

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [18]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Kidnapping, Married Couple, Near Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2086938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rukia's mission goes horribly awry. Byakuya and Hisana have an intimate moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Leftovers

It only takes a few seconds before all hell breaks loose. And, boy, does it ever. One hollow down, and, at least, another to go, she observes, gazing into the foggy night air.

For a minute there, she was certain she had everything under control. The kid was neutralized—tied up in a well-executed binding spell. It should've lasted until she was finished.

Or, so she thought.

Right then, she's thinking a lot of things and realizing that she's made quite a few unmerited assumptions. How foolish of her. It was sophomoric to assume there was only one hollow. But, it was  _bravado_ , raw and arrogant, to think that Captain Shiba's boy would be downed by a low-level binding spell, no matter how well-fashioned.

Just as she deals the killing stroke to the second hollow to rear its ugly head that night, the boy emerges, inching, like a worm, through the wide open door. Words, hot and discordant, spew from his lips. He is raving mad, and, apparently, he's not taking it anymore.

Damn.

She should've shut the door. Should've locked it, too. But  _no_. She made a miscalculation. This is her first of many mistakes.

Her second mistake is ignoring the kid.

He is babbling on about something. Something about his family. Something about needing to protect them.

_Sure, kid. Whatever you think. Whatever will keep you occupied._

She ignores him, pushes his harried voice to the back of her conscious mind. She will deal with him later, when the coast is clear. Right then, there is something else. A more powerful enemy lies in wait. It is ruthless and surprisingly intelligent for a hollow. To its advantage, it uses the last hollow's spiritual pressure to mask its own signature.

It takes a well-timed flash-step to its back and a few strokes of her blade to down the creature. It falls in a heap to the ground. A thick cloud of dirt and spiritual particles billows across the street, blanketing the area in a layer of grime.

Satisfied with her performance, Rukia turns to the boy and gives him a heated onceover. A barbed comment tears through her brain, leaving a scorched trail in her gray matter before simmering against the back of her throat.

Why must the living question everything? It's not like he can possibly  _hope_  to understand the intricacy of the balance at play tonight. He's just a  _mortal_  even if his father  _was_  the captain of the Tenth.

Before her rebuke makes it to her lips, she stops dead. The world goes static, deathly quiet. And, there is a humming. She feels the low frequency rattling around her bones and ricocheting across her organs before her mind comprehends the extent of the danger lurking nearby. Reflexively, her head snaps up, and her eyes turn skyward. It is all instinct and adrenaline at this point. Gazing into the firmament, she sees her third mistake manifest before her eyes.

_Surprise._

Oh, how she hates  _surprises_. But, she presses forward, ignoring the kid. Ignoring the wide open door. Ignoring her better judgment as she pursues the beast.

She should've secured the area before going after the hollow. But, she doesn't. She doesn't even detect the danger looming over Shiba's quiet little family. Not until it is too late.

She loses control.

Somewhere.

Somehow.

Everything goes a little awry. Everything gets a little hazy. In an instant, the world goes lopsided. Her balance slips. Her resolve falters. She stumbles, gasping.

The pointy end goes  _through_  the hollow, she reminds herself.

A lump in her throat traps her breath before it rises, nearly gagging her. Her mouth goes dry, cottony, but she manages. She has always managed. It is just something that she  _does_. It is something that she will always do. It is an indelible part of her character. Rukia, The Manager.

She can manage this.  _This_ is nothing. The night could throw her ten more of these behemoths. She dares the fates.

Silently, however, her inner pragmatist regrets making that wager. Fate can be a right bitch. Like right now, answering her hubris plus interest.

_Dammit._

Her muscles cry out, threatening to unspool at any moment. Her legs quake under the weight of her body. The fibers in her shoulders and arms have gone to jelly. Her sword wavers. And, kidō? Forget kidō. Her hands are tired, cracked, and bleeding from casting spells already.

What is this, exactly?

_A convergence?_

It  _feels_  like a tectonic shift. The ground rolls under her feet. The air becomes dense, making it harder to breathe. She labors to find her footing, knowing that if she falters then that's  _it_. Game over. Right now, she's the only thing keeping these monsters at bay. If she fails, then 'so long' to a whole city block of Karakura Town.

Her knees buckle, but she stays planted. Vertical. That's where she needs to stay for the time being. She stands proud, but she isn't sure how much more she's got to give.

Things were going so well only two days ago. What a difference 48 hours could make. Damn those hollows, damn that aberrant town, with its abnormally high concentration of spiritual power, and damn that strange boy. His reiatsu draws the monsters to him like a magnet pulling scraps of metal. Everything else is collateral to the hollows; their hunger drives them, forcing them to find and consume the kid at all costs.

She prays she never sees him again. Such, however, is not her luck because, just as she prepares to release her Zanpakutō, he enters the field. Apparently, her spell kept him busy for approximately ten minutes. Good to know for later reference, she guesses.

What did he say his name was, again?

Oh, right, he hasn't given his name. Neither has she. It doesn't matter, she tells herself. They'll never see each other again. Not after tonight.

Her Zanpakutō sends an arctic blast hurling toward the hollow, easily felling it.

Shards of deadly ice shoot up from the ground, claiming yet another foe. This one is winged, and completely taken aback by her strike. The beast probably thought Sode no Shirayuki was a one-hit wonder.

Well, it was  _wrong_.

As the hollow comes crashing to the ground, she turns just in time to dodge another attack.

Is this the twelfth or thirteenth hollow? She has lost count. Maybe there were more. Gods, she hopes this is the last of the onslaught, but, if the churning in her stomach is any indication, it isn't. Not by a mile.

Before she rebounds, she sends another punishing attack careening in the general direction of the hollow.

This is her fourth miscalculation.

The direction is  _too_  general. Her aim is too broad. It goes wild.

"No!" Her voice shrieks out with the intensity of a clarion's high-pitched wail when she sees the boy. Unknowingly, he stands directly in the path of her Zanpakutō's icy swath.

She slams into him, bearing the brunt of her own attack. A second later, Sode no Shirayuki's would have encased the kid in frost. Deadly, merciless frost.

She takes Sode no Shirayuki's ferocity better than he would, but a particularly stubborn shard of ice does not abandon course. Instead, it careens directly into her, skewering her through the chest.

Her heart stops.

Her chest seizes.

The sound of her blood pounding in her ears blots out all other noise. The world goes eerily silent as if the fates have thrown her into the middle of an ocean, where she sinks. It is hard to breathe, to think, and to move.

Cut to the quick and fighting through the wintry paralysis, her quivering hand grips the ice shard, and, Sode no Shirayuki, realizing her mistress is under its spell, quickly dissipates.

Collapsing to her knees, Rukia's chest falls forward. Her arms shoot out, just in time, to catch her before she crashes face-first to the earth. Shakily, she braces herself, palms against the icy tundra of her Zanpakutō's blast and fingers burrowing into the frozen ground for support.

A rivulet of blood trails from the corner of her mouth down her chin. She can taste metal, and, as the liquid fills her mouth, threatening to choke her, she spits out the fluid before a coughing attack commences. Droplets of blood pelt the white ice, dying the crystals a deep shade of scarlet.

"Idiot." She glares up at the boy.

"My sister," he says hurriedly as if his motives deserve explaining.

His lips begin to move, and she is sure he saying something. She waits for the sound to reach her, but the words never come. Her mental static is just too impenetrable. Time goes still. The world around her grows dimmer with each passing moment.

He has an earnest reason for coming, and that reason falls from his lips. It burns in his eyes. It is his family. She doesn't blame him for wanting to save his family, but his sister isn't there, and, if she isn't there, that probably means she's been kidnapped by a bigger bad than the one that is currently bearing down on them.

"Is there anyway? Anyway to protect my family?" His eyes are wide and searching. He has a panicked look about him—the same look a wild animal gets upon realizing it is caught in a leg-hold trap. He appears wounded, hurt, and desperate. Sweat beads across his brow. She can almost  _taste_  the rawness of his urgency.

Grimacing, Rukia fights through the bitter pain, swallowing both blood and bile as she finds her voice. "There is one way." She winces and sucks in a cold breath between her teeth. "You become a Shinigami," and, with all her might, she struggles to lift her blade to his chest.

He stares at her, clearly nonplussed. "What?"

"I will pierce you with my Zanpakutō ." Her voice becomes strained, and her breathing goes ragged. She wonders if he can hear her through the heavy wheezing. "I will transfer half of my power, making you a Shinigami for a short amount of time."

The boy's shock morphs into an expression of horrified bewilderment. Just when it looks like he is about to stall in Deliberation Mode, a loud gut-wrenching scream sets his resolve. It is his sister no doubt, and, by the sound of it, she isn't too far away. There is still a shred of hope that she can be saved.

"There is a high likelihood of mortality," Rukia observes, coldly. It is true. While she doubts this information will sway his mind, he should at least  _know_  the risks.

But, in true Shiba-fashion, he ignores the possibility of death. He takes a few steps forward, lifts his head, and pins her with a hardened stare. "Let's do this, Shinigami."

"It's not  _Shinigami_." Her words slip through clenched teeth as she braces herself. She feels unsteady. Her balance slides to the left. In fact, the whole world feels like it's gone off its axis.

Fighting gravity, she straightens her back, trying her best to comport herself despite toeing the line of death, herself. "It's Rukia." In all likelihood, they are both going to die. He might as well know the name of his murderer. She sure as hell wants to know the name of hers.

His eyes narrow. Gone is the wide-eyed little lamb of a boy. Before her stands a resolute soul, waiting for the opportunity to prove its worth, like an eager racehorse waiting for the gates to break open. "Ichigo Kurosaki." His voice is firm and low.

He is ready.

A surge of adrenaline rushes through her veins, waking what little energy that she has left to offer. Rukia presses the tip of her blade against his chest. "This may hurt."

Oh, no, it  _is going to hurt_.

A lot.

* * *

Hisana sits there completely oblivious to her effect on her husband as she strums a dulcet melody on the koto. Her fingers are deft, proficient. She is playing his mood—melancholy and languid are the tones she chooses.

He watches her movements. His gaze is fleeting. Surreptitious. She doesn't feel its weight or heat. No, she continues plucking away, unknowing.

He finds her charming in the hasty shades of twilight. The ends of her hair are damp from her bath. The tresses cling to her shoulders and trail down her arms as she moves. Her silk clings to her moist body, too. The collar of her nightclothes slips down, loose.

She doesn't bother with silks or her hair. Not then. She doesn't have to. He prefers that she doesn't. Propriety would break the spell, he thinks.

"What is the song?" he asks after a few long moments.

Her wide eyes flit up. The dim light catches in her gaze, flashing a devious look. He knows it well.

A smile curves the corners of her mouth. It warms the heart and creases the eyes. "I am playing the notes on your face, milord."

If only she knew. Maybe she does. Perhaps she knows better than he ever will.

He represses a grin, but it escapes him all the same. He knows her reply well. She says it when he is looking ill at ease. It is a tactic of hers—to play the notes on his face. Once she has lulled him into a quiet complacency with her lugubrious strumming, she moves on to happier chords. She finds him, matches him, and elevates him. It is very subtle. Years of marriage, however, have unearthed her methods.

He doesn't mind it.

But, she has been playing low and sad for a while now. Has she not found him yet? She hasn't quite matched his mood. Hasn't quite decided to elevate his state.

He isn't as desolate as her music suggests.

Her eyes slip to the koto. She is offering him privacy, but he doesn't require it. He wishes to say something, anything—a word, a sentence, a verse.

Nothing comes to mind.

All he can do is stare, quietly trapped in his own thoughts. It is a terrible place to be at times. It feels like he is reaching for an object that will always be but a fingertip's length away.

"I love you."

It sounds like a question.

Serenely, she glances up, never missing a note.

He wonders if he has said anything at all. She barely responds. Maybe he said something, but the words were not the ones ringing in his ears. Maybe he made some trivial observation at the last minute. He does that sometimes. He abandons course when his heart pulls up its shield.

She studies him with a measured glance.

The music ceases.

He doesn't know when the air cleared. It could have been seconds, minutes, or  _hours_  ago. Yet, it is silence, pure and clear. He doesn't hear her sullen tune, but he wishes he did. He hears nothing save for the throbbing sound of his heart. His pulse thunders in his ears with great intensity. Indeed, a visceral cascade of panic sweeps across his entire body, lighting up every single nerve in the process. He feels a keen sense of dread as if he has made a devastating miscalculation, the type of miscalculation that ends in doom. The last time he experienced such a sensation was on battlefield. He does not expect it in the bedroom; although, it is arrogant of him to assume the bedroom is safe from such feelings. If anything, experience has proven love to be a blood sport, after all.

Feeling the heavy weight of silence, he shifts on his knees. Maybe he said the words after all. Maybe she stopped playing because the force of his sentiments stopped her. Maybe she stopped playing because she is preparing to meet his confession with one of her own.

Maybe she stopped playing because his face went blank.

Perhaps he never said anything at all.

He's never said the words before. He has kept them trapped behind locked lips and guarded stares for years, always telling himself that mere words are meaningless without action. But, now, the words just burst forth. They sound from his heart. They resonate in his actions. They bely his motives.

"I know," she states with a grace and confidence that bewitches him.

He offers his hand, and she is quick to accept. She is even quicker to soothe him, brushing strands of hair from his eyes and straightening his robes as if the confession has left him in tatters. Perhaps it has.

The realization itself is not particularly novel. It is the fear that she doesn't return his love that chills his heart. He is sure that fear flowed through his confession, morphing it into a question or, worse, a condition.

"You once said you wished you could return my love." His voice is soft, low, but there is a subtle quaver to it. It is imperceptible, he hopes.

Her expression softens into a somber shade, but only silence lingers on her lips. She waits for him, urging him to continue with a patient look.

"Do you feel similarly now?" The question proves more painful than he initially imagines. His gaze drifts to the tatami, where it remains as he waits for her reply.

A grand fear expands in his heart. It has always been there, festering. Ever since he purchased her contract those many years ago, he has feared that he imposed something on her that she did not desire for herself. If such were true, she would never tell him. She simply does not possess the ability. Her training wouldn't allow it. She is a companion by trade, and she is one of the best.

But, just where did the illusion cease? Did it? Has it ever?

She breaks his tension with a fond smile. "A man may love his god, milord, but it would be folly to think he could match his god's capacity for love." Taking his hands in hers, she lifts her head and meets his gaze. "Not if I live ten thousand lifetimes could my love inspire the joy in you that your love inspires in me."

He dips his head toward hers. She is close. So close. He can feel her breath ghost across his lips. It is warm, and it is fragrant. "Then, I have been careless."

Her lips part, and her breath catches in her throat. A question springs forth, he can tell. Before she can reach for the words, however, he stops her.

"I have been careless if I did not adequately convey how happy your love makes me."

She inclines her head. Her lips are almost brushing against his. "How happy, milord?" she asks, teasing him with her proximity.

"Incandescently," he says.

"Then prove it." She challenges him with a quirked brow and the smuggest of expressions.

Never one to turn down a challenge, he grabs her arm, pulls her close, and kisses her thoroughly.


End file.
